


Ever Onward

by alternative_kiss



Category: Led Zeppelin, Rock Music RPF
Genre: An original character was murdered, Btw jimmy is sooooo adorable, Can’t contact the author(asking for help), Detective AU, Hurt, Interrogation, It’s not my original work, Kidnapping, M/M, New York City, Police, Post-Led Zeppelin, alternative universe, happy ending of course!, murder investigation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternative_kiss/pseuds/alternative_kiss
Summary: What do rock and rollers do when they're sick of the biz? Well, of course, they hit the mean streets of New York City to stamp out crime. That's what Robert Plant and Jimmy Page did, and they became the hottest crime fighting duo in the history of New York City justice.Here is their story.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Before you read this work,I’d like to make it clear that this work ISN’T belong to me!  
> I read it long time ago on a website I can’t remember and I saved the text.And now I just want to post it on AO3 and let others see such a fantastic fic. And I don’t want to profit from this work by using other’s work.  
> I love this work very much and do appreciate the unknown author.  
> So if you’re the author or the author’s friend or someone who had read this work, please tell me and I will ask him or her for permission as soon as possible. If my repost of this work offends you,I will surely delete it and please accept my sincere apology.  
> Well now, enjoy this!x

Detective James P. Page sat at his cluttered desk in the 9th Manhattan Precinct building. He leaned back in his comfortable but tattered arm chair, and wearily crossed his cowboy boots on top of his paper-covered desk. He was clad in neatly pressed black trousers, and a slightly puffy grey silk shirt. A loose black tie rested along his chest and stomach like a slumbering snake. His long, unruly black hair was tinged with grey at the sides; his bangs touched heavy brows, accentuating his brooding countenance.

The detective's desk was covered with a clutter of newspapers, official forms, and rap sheets. A full styrofoam cup of black coffee sat untouched among the scattered papers, and next to a framed color photograph of a beautiful woman and a young boy. His desk looked just like any other desk in the precinct, with the exception of a very conspicuous electric guitar, an orange Les Paul Custom, no less, propped at a jaunty angle against its right side. Another desk, at the moment unoccupied, faced Detective Page's. The brass name plate declared: "Det. Robert A. Plant."

Detective Page was in an extremely pensive mood, as he was wont to be before an interrogation. He was known in the precinct as a master interrogator, able to wheedle information and confessions out of the most stubborn and seasoned of criminals. Page employed a cunning combination of will and cool to outlast even the most unbreakable suspects. He never even had to threaten bodily harm; he rarely broke a sweat during the process. He also had an eerie sixth sense that made him quite expert in solving crimes and sniffing out the suspicious. The chiefs nicknamed him "Cayce" after the late, great clairvoyant and crime solver, and the name stuck. Page had become a valuable asset to the 9th precinct, which made his presence, and the presence of his blonde partner, bearable at the precinct house, in spite of the fact that they were considered not only foreigners by their mostly dyed -in-the-wool New Yorker colleagues, but unwanted outsiders as well.

The brooding cop was examining a plain donut. He twirled it round and round in his long fingers, and regarded the pastry as if it held the secret of the universe in its ring-like shape. His boots, still crossed atop today's neglected paperwork, shook rhythmically to some tune unheard by anyone other than himself. Page finally took a small nibble of the donut, and, pursing his cherubic lips in distaste, tossed the treat absentmindedly onto his desk. The donut slid across the desk, taking some papers along for the ride, and came to a stop against the coffee cup. The force of the collision caused some of the black fluid to splash the papers and the photograph. The excess spillage was absorbed by the donut. Page did not seem to notice, or more likely, did not care about the mess he had made of his papers and the photo of his family.

"Hey, Cayce!" Detective Blett called to his moody colleague from across the room. "Problems wi' dat?" He motioned to the donut he had earlier generously offered Page.

"Problems?" Page emerged wearily from his reverie, and regarded Blett with his glittering, dark grey eyes. At the same time, he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

"Yeah! Like, what'd I give you that donut for if you're not gonna eat it?" Blett was smiling, but Page could tell he was perturbed by his rejection of the offering. "It's cop fuel, man! Eat it!" Blett added, encouragingly.

"I don't eat lard-based foods." Page declared flatly, then: "You want it back? Here." He grabbed the soggy donut from its resting place and pitched it across the office at Blett. The donut hit the startled officer squarely in the chest, making a combined coffee and grease stain on his paisley necktie. Blett roared.

"I oughta go over there and whip yer skinny ass! Who do you think you are, you Limey bastard? You think yer something, dontcha? Man, if you weren't on yer way to do a job on Bicycle Bob right now, I'd break your goddam, pretty little face!" Blett stalked out of the office in order to keep his anger in check.

Page chuckled at the outburst. The other detectives in the room laughed with him, but he was laughing entirely to himself. He never did anything to entertain others. Everything detective Page did, whether it was cruel or kind, was for his own amusement. That made his fellow detectives, who were for the most part herd animals, a tad uncomfortable. They had often wondered why those two Englishmen were placed on the force to begin with.

They had appeared mysteriously--the striking blonde and the brooding dark one--one day to work the bootleg merchandise beat in conjunction with the FBI. In a few short months of casual investigation followed by firestorm confiscations, Page and Plant had entirely wiped out the bootleg record and movie markets in Manhattan; and then they did the same in the boroughs. There were tales of mythical proportion of the two bursting into bootleg CD plants, guns drawn, closing down the operation with fierce completeness. They would roam the Village, visiting used record stores and carrying out armloads of merchandise, to the surprise and dismay of the proprietors. They swept the bootleg video dealers from the streets with no quarter. No one knew where the avenging rock and roll detectives would show up next, and no one wanted to take the chance of being nailed by them. Mere hours after new bootleg factories were established, the operations invariably received a visitation from the seemingly omniscient duo. Record stores refused to carry illegal merchandise anymore. It was as if Page and Plant could smell bootleg merchandise in the making.

The New York Post had quoted a St. Mark's Place record store owner in reference to his recent bootleg bust: "They had been in my shop before, several times over the years, actually. I remember standing there in awe, trying not to stare, thinking 'Oh, my god! Jimmy Page and Robert Plant are in MY store!' They even bought stuff once in a while. Then, they show up one day, start pulling records and CDs out of the bins, and THEN, they flash, like, police badges, and say that they're confiscating my stuff! I couldn't believe it! I almost fainted."

After they smashed the bootleg industry, Page and Plant were made full detectives on the New York City police force. They both carried badges and big reputations. The pair were used to being a phenomenon, but this was of an entirely different sort. They were now assigned to the homicide division after being denied their request for transfer to prostitution and pandering.

Shortly after their transfer to the homicide division of the 9th precinct, detectives Page and Plant were summoned into Captain Hughie's office. A case had arisen that perfectly matched the duo's unique qualifications.

"Cayce, Plant! I'd like to see you two in here," Hughie called from his glassed-in office.

Plant and Page were sitting across from each other at their desks. Page was, as usual, ignoring the growing pile of paperwork on his desk while strumming his guitar absentmindedly, legs on their perch atop his desk. Plant was sitting before a cup of steeping tea, drumming his fingers on his desk to the rhythm of Page's playing. When Hughie called them, they both rolled their eyes, stopped what they were doing, and dutifully made their way to the Captain's office. Robert brought his tea, Jimmy carefully sat his guitar upright on his chair, as if to mark his place.

"Boys, I want you to go to Soho to take a look at a stiff," the captain declared matter-of-factly.

Captain Hughie was a portly black man in his fifties, with a thick moustache and raven-like eyes. He sat on the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest and resting on his large belly at the same time.

Page and Plant stood, shoulders touching, against the glass panel that separated the captain's office from the homicide squad room. Page was wearing his customary black, but today, instead of a tie, he had draped a turquoise scarf around his shoulders. Plant, always the flashier dresser, was wearing a cobalt blue silk suit, white blouse, and a technicolor tie which blended both tastefully. His wild blonde curls were trimmed to the neckline.

"Ooooooh. Sounds like someone's died," Robert said, rapidly bobbing his teabag.

"No. Someone has been murdered," Hughie replied, slipping off the desk to stand at the window. A forest of skyscrapers formed the panorama before him. "One of you rock and roll fellas, so that's why you two've been assigned to the case," he continued.

Both detectives started when they heard the last bit of information.

"Ugh, not a John Lennon situation," Robert said ruefully.

"Wrong again." Hughie said to the window, and turned to face the pair after picking up a folder from his desk. "It's a kid from a band called, um . . ." He quickly consulted the scanty contents of the folder. "Arachnid. Yeah, Arachnid. Whatever in the hell that is . . ."

"Spider," Robert said quickly.

"What?" Hughie had become distracted.

"A spider," Robert repeated. "An arachnid is a spider, or any other eight-legged, multi-ocular creepy crawler with an exterior skeleton."

"Ah. Yeah. Thanks, professor," Hughie said, pausing to take a sip from his lukewarm cup of coffee and recollect his thoughts. He went on.

"The kid, his name was Banana DeLong, he was the guitar player. Has an apartment on Houston. He was found clubbed and shot in his apartment a little while ago after one of the other guys in the band checked up on him. Seems he was late for rehearsal."

"Poor chap." Robert frowned.

Jimmy made a surprised sound somewhere in his throat.

"You knew him?" Robert raised his eyebrows at his partner.

Jimmy nodded his head sadly. "I met him once. Decent kid. Guitar style lacked a little, but he was a nice bloke."

Hughie continued. "This was obviously no robbery-related killing because the apartment was left pristine. Nothing stolen. Everything in order. We wanna put you two on the case because it involves one of you rock and roll weirdos. Plus it'll be a good place for you and Cayce there . . . hey, Cayce."

Jimmy had turned his attention away from the captain, and back to the outer office. He had gotten the feeling that someone was eyeing his guitar as it sat unprotected at his desk. He was right. It was Blett. Page was ready to pounce if Blett dared to touch it.

"Hey, Cayce! Pay attention," Hughie commanded, perturbed. Page turned around, but only enough to keep his guitar, and Blett, within range of his peripheral vision.

"Anyway," Hughie said, stepping closer to the pair, "you'd better get over there, 428 Houston, apartment . . ." He began to consult the folder, but stopped. "You'll know where the hell it is . . . where all the goddam cops and photogs will be. Just hurry before the goddam body starts to stink. Here." Hughie slapped the folder against the distracted Page's chest. Page grabbed at it quickly before the contents had a chance to slip out.

Page and Plant both strapped on their body holsters at their desks. Before they left the precinct house, Page shot a warning glance at Blett, who was watching them suspiciously from his desk at the other end of the squad room.

"If you touch this," Page called to Blett, pointing at the guitar sitting on his chair, "I'll know about it."

Blett smartly flipped him the bird.

Halfway out of the squad room, Page had a change of heart, and returned to his desk. He slung the guitar across his back and hurried after Robert.


	2. Chapter Two

Detectives Page and Plant arrived at 428 Houston. There were already a plethora of squad cars parked on the street, the coroner's van, and a number of Arachnid fans who had heard the word on the street that something definitely not kosher had happened at their idol Banana's place the night before. The crime scene was cordoned off with cheerful yellow ribbons.

Inside the apartment, uniformed policemen milled about, and a photographer was busily setting off flashes in every corner. The coroner was drawing a chalk outline around the body of a young man, dressed only in boxer shorts, laying face down on the floor. His long, blonde hair was matted with blood. The detectives identified themselves to the coroner, who proceeded to show them where the late guitarist had been clubbed on the back of the head. He also revealed a neat bullet hole at the base of the musician's skull. Page, whose stomach began to churn doubletime, decided to inspect the premises and let his partner deal with the body.

"It's about time you assholes from homicide decided to show up!" Seargeant Talc, the uniformed officer in charge, accosted Jimmy, who was examining DeLong's guitar collection.

"Piss off, Talc," Jimmy responded, not bothering to look at the muscle bound Brooklynite.  
"You know what I hate more than fuckers who rape little girls?" Talc sneered into Page's ear.

"I don't really give a shit, but I'm sure you're going to tell me." Page turned to face the hulking cop, figuring that confrontation was inevitable, anyway.

"Plainclothes Limey scum detectives. Especially ones with long hair that look like pussy boys," Talc sneered contemptuously through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that's nice," Page replied with a crooked smile, "now, can I get back to my investigation?"

"What can you possibly know about investigating a murder, you hippy faggot?" Talc was not one to let go of a good conversation.

"Enough to know what the murderer was after," Detective Page said flatly, and left Talc standing there fuming alone while he returned to his partner in the entryway.

"Definitely a professional whack job," Robert said, flipping his notepad closed, and shoving his ballpoint pen behind his ear. The pen disappeared in a mop of curls.

"A what?" Jimmy asked, perplexed.

"Mob killin' Jim. Get with the picture. Don't you know your American crime vocabulary yet?"

"Well, yes," Jimmy replied, "hippy. Faggot. Limey scum."

"There. See? You're catching on!" Robert said proudly, patting Jimmy on the shoulder. "What'd you find? Anything?"

"Lots." Jimmy said. 

Page paused for a moment while he remembered a party a few years back, after the Donnington Monsters of Rock festival. Arachnid was one of the featured bands. Page had a brief, but memorable encounter with Banana DeLong there. The young man was incredibly drunk and loose. He weaved unsteadily through the crowd to Jimmy, and threw his arms around the guitar god.

"Man, yer beautiful!" The young guitarist slurred. Page was so startled by the unexpected embrace that he was frozen to the spot. He was not used to that kind of familiarity, even from the very drunk. The kid had balls, he remembered thinking.

"Jimmy, yer mah idol, man!" The intoxicated musician gushed, hanging on to Jimmy's shoulders for dear life. Jimmy had felt himself begin to sway dangerously in his worshipper's grip. His bodyguard started to close in, but Jimmy shot him a halting glance.  
"Like the firssstime I saw you, like, in the Song Remainsa Same, I wen out an bought mah first LesssssPaul Custom, the or'nge one jus like yers I used tonight. Man, you gotta sign my guitar. Wouldja?"

Jimmy had agreed graciously to sign the guitar. Banana asked his roadie bring it along with a special pen. Jimmy remembered putting his spiky signature on the guitar, and the grateful look of ecstasy on the face of the now-dead guitarist. It was moments like that Jimmy had lived and played for. His eyes stung a little as remembered his meeting with the now-dead guitarist. 

The memory of the event played continuously in Jimmy's mind as he had inspected the neat row of guitars in the dead rocker's living room. The orange Les Paul he had signed was conspicuously absent; a single, empty guitar stand sat in the corner by a small amplifier, meaningless to all the cops present but himself.

"They took a guitar," he told his partner, who was patiently waiting out the silence.

"They did?" Robert was stunned. "One guitar?"

Page nodded, and told Robert about the meeting at the Monsters of Rock festival. "It would be unthinkable for Banana to be without that Les Paul. He did most of his composition on it. It's . . . it was his prize guitar. Plus, the empty stand. It just doesn't make sense. I think someone was after that guitar and got it."

Robert mused. "Buy why would the mob want a guitar? Surely, not just for your signature," he added jokingly.

Jimmy shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't the mob?"

"Hey, you done jerkin' off there?" It was Sergeant Talc. DeLong's body had been deposited into a black bag, and was on a stretcher waiting to be wheeled out to the coroner's van. Page and Plant had been blocking the egress while they pondered.

"Piss off, Talc!" The pair said in unison, and they strode out of the building.

Outside the crowd had grown, and a number of young people had begun yelling "Banana!" up at the windows of the apartment building. When Page and Plant exited the front door, someone in the crowd recognized them and called out "Jimmy!"

Jimmy, out of habit, turned smiling toward the crowd, and gave a little wave. More people began calling out Jimmy's and Robert's names, and the crowd pressed closer to the police barricade, trying to follow the duo's movements toward their waiting car. One person yelled out, "How's Banana?"

Not knowing exactly what to do, the two, in one of their psychic moments, both flashed a thumbs up and smiled. A small cheer arose, but quickly dissipated, as, at exactly the same time the stretcher carrying the body bag was being maneuvered down the front steps of the building. A woman screamed, and then the whole crowd broke into a mournful ruckus in response to what they presumed was their idol in a body bag.

Realizing the error of their gesture, Page and Plant used the diversion to jump into their car and speed off into the city.  
The next morning, Detective Page ambled into the squad room, toting his guitar. A cigarette dangled from his lips. The advanced shading on his face indicated that he had not bothered to shave. Plant was already at his desk, sipping a cup of steaming tea, and poring studiously over a stack of papers.

Jimmy carefully set his guitar in its regular place and sat heavily down at his desk.

"Good morning, Jim!" Robert greeted him cheerfully.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep this schedule," Jimmy whined. He took a small drag from his Marlboro, exhaled, and crushed it out in the ashtray on his desk.

"Hey! Stop complainin'. This is real excitement for a change!" Robert said enthusiastically across the sea of papers that separated them. "I don't want to hear a negative word out of you. Besides, I've been researching the band Arachnid all night and found some pretty heady stuff." He tapped the stack of papers in front of him triumphantly.

Jimmy's chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back to plop his boots on top of the desk. He lit another cigarette.

"What heady stuff?" He asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Robert leaned forward and lowered his voice an octave. "Arachnid has connections to the Tortellini family, one of the biggest crime syndicates in New York City." He paused for effect. Jimmy's eyes narrowed until they almost closed. He took another drag.

"Go on."

"Well, it seems that most of Arachnid's equipment was destroyed in a fire at a venue they were supposed to play a few years back. The hall went up in flames a couple of hours before the show. No one was there, but the equipment was all set up. The band was in a jam, so to speak, because they had to finish their tour, but had no equipment, and no money to adequately replace it. They went to a loan shark connected with the Tortellini family to borrow the hundred grand they needed."

Jimmy knitted his brows. "Why didn't the record company or manager foot the bill?"

"That's the catch. They already owed big on their record company advance. Management was in hock up to their gonads, too."

"Insurance?" Jimmy offered.

"None. The drummer knew a guy, who knew a guy, well, you know how that works. Pretty soon they were on the receiving end of a low interest loan compliments of the Tortellini family."

"Hmmmmmm." Jimmy contemplated what he had just heard. "So you're saying that this was a money hit. Arachnid owed the Tortellinis money, and they killed the lead guitar."

"It seems logical," Robert said.

Jimmy shook his head. "I'm not convinced. What about the guitar? There was definitely a guitar missing there. That reads into it somehow."

"I hate to burst your bubble, old mate, but that guitar you autographed burned in the theatre fire. It is no more. That's why it wasn't at Banana's flat."

Jimmy continued to shake his head. "I don't think it's that simple."

Robert changed the tenor of the discussion. "And, I think I know who did the hit."

Silence from Jimmy.

"I talked to my weasel last night . . ."

"Oh, I talk to mine all the time," Jimmy said flatly, a small smile parting his lips.

"My contact, wiseass," Robert laughed. "He told me where we might find one Roberto 'Bicycle Bob' Pesto, the Tortellini family hit man. Not bad for a night's work, eh?"

Jimmy made a small sound in agreement, screwing his lips up a little.

"What'd you do last night, Jim?" Robert asked.

"It was Les Paul night at Fat Tuesday's."

"Ah. How is he doing, then. Good?"

"Gettin' old. A little shaky, but he can still cut it," Jimmy replied, tamping out his cigarette.  
"That's been said about us, you know," Robert said with a small, bittersweet smile.

Jimmy smiled back. "Inspiring, isn't it?"  
"Let's go get Bicycle Bob," Robert replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to contact the author! Hope I would get a reply.


	3. Chapter Three

Detectives Page and Plant sat in stakeout outside of Tonio's Casa di Pasta 'n' Sushi, the front business for the Tortellini family social club in Little Italy. It was here that Robert's weasel said they could find Bicycle Bob dining every Wednesday, the family's spaghetti day. Robert had stocked his souped-up, vintage Duster with his favorite krispy kreme donuts and a thermos of coffee. Robert defended his rampant donut eating by claiming that when one plays a role, one must play it to the hilt in order to benefit completely by the experience.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was not fond of donuts. Robert had insisted that he try one. "They're krispy kreme!" He offered, encouragingly. Jimmy made a few finger holes in it, tasted the filling, and promptly threw it out of the car window.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Robert asked his partner, exasperated. "That's like leaving a bloody popcorn trail. Everybody will know we're cops if they see that donut outside the car!"

Jimmy shrugged, and started to reach back to get his guitar, which he had set upright on the back seat as if it were a passenger.

"And, goddamit Jimmy, will you stop bringing your guitar with us? You can't play it on a stakeout!"

The moody detective raised his hands in surrender, and hunched down in his seat, sighing miserably. "This cop thing is getting pretty old," he said in a threatening tone.

"Oh, shaddup," Robert remarked, keeping his eye on the front door of Tonio's, "this was mostly your idea, anyway, and you're goddam buggering out on me."

"It was a meaningless bet," Jimmy corrected.

"Yeah. Just like playing Stairway to Heaven on that ridiculous Japanese TV show. You always pick the winners, an' then everybody asks ME 'why'd you do that?'"

Jimmy pulled down the visor and opened the mirror on the back. He checked his hair, paying special attention to the grey streaks.

"You're beautiful. Don't bother," Robert said, snapping the visor back into place. Jimmy hunched down more, pouting, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Will you straighten up and watch out for Bicycle Bob? Help me out a little here."

"I don't even know what the bloke looks like," Jimmy said, dejectedly.

"He's this skinny, dark-haired Italian guy. He'll be wearing powder blue Nikes and will have a red handkerchief in his front pocket. Or, at least that's what the weasel told me."

Jimmy nodded, and made a poor attempt to look like he was looking.  
"Why do they call him Bicycle Bob?" Jimmy asked after a few minutes of faux surveilance.

"He does a lot of his hits from a bicycle, according to mob mythology," Robert replied. "There was one hit in particular, where he killed a Gnocci family capo while he was jogging in Central Park. Bob just peddaled like the devil past him and pumped him full of lead on the way. They never found the murder weapon, nor the bicycle. But everyone knew it was him. A lot of mobsters have been dispatched by a two-wheeled hit man. That's Bicycle Bob. Hey!" Robert exclaimed suddenly. "I think that's our man."

Sure enough, a thin Italian guy with powder blue Nikes and a red handkerchief exited Tonio's Casa di Pasta 'n' Sushi. He walked briskly down the street after checking both ways.

"Draw your pistol, Jim. We might be in for some action," Robert said as he fingered the ignition key, waiting for the right moment to move.

Jimmy groped under his jacket. "I forgot to put it on," He said quietly.

Robert shot him a deadly glance. "You brought your guitar but you forgot your goddam weapon?"

Jimmy flashed a sheepish grin.

"Nice." Robert said under his breath as he started the car. "You're just not cut out for this shit, are you?"

Robert did a u-turn in the street, and began driving slowly, staying just behind Bicycle Bob. Bob detected he was being followed and hurried his pace. Robert then sped up, drew his gun, and called to the man on the sidewalk: "Pesto! Hold it!"

Bicycle Bob gave them one quick, backward glance, and then started running. He crossed the street in front of the car and sprinted down the sidewalk. Robert hit the gas, and raced ahead of the running man, making a sharp turn onto the sidewalk, blocking his way.

Bicycle Bob tried vaulting himself over the top of the car, but Jimmy, in a lightening move that continued to amaze Robert for years afterwards, and provided hours of tale-telling fodder for his grandchildren, grabbed his guitar from the back seat, leaped out of the car, and smashed Bicycle Bob straight across the legs with the instrument. The guitar made a loud, unearthly twang, and Bicycle Bob flew into a crumpled heap on the roof of Plant's Duster.

Plant was right on top of the hit man. He cuffed the wheezing mobster, relieved him of his pistol, and plopped him in the back seat of the car. Plant then turned to Jimmy, and said, "Damn good work, partner! I take back everything I said . . ."

But Jimmy, oblivious to the drama, was leaning against the Duster with his guitar, alternately pounding the strings with his fist and shaking it, trying to duplicate the unique sound he heard when the instrument had come into contact with Bicycle Bob's shins. Robert--and a perplexed and rather stunned Bicycle Bob--watched the display for several minutes until Jimmy stopped, grousing to himself:

"Ah, fuck it. It was a once in a lifetime sound. I wish I had had me Radio Shack jobbie with me." 

Driving back to the 9th, Bicycle Bob asked his captors, "what the hell are you bringing me in for, anyway? I didn't do nothin'!"

"You're wanted in connection with the murder of Banana DeLong," Robert answered in his most cop-like cadence.

"Oh." The mobster said, puzzled. "Aren't you gonna Mirandize me?"

"What? Uh, no. Not here. Jimmy's gonna do that later," Robert replied.  
So, after yet another tense moment with Detective Blett, Detective James P. Page once again walked silently into the sickly yellow glow of the interrogation room to torment Bicycle Bob. The room contained one steel table directly in the middle of the room; and two wooden chairs facing each other on either side of the table. A two-way mirror filled one wall conspicuously; the other walls were painted a depressing khaki color and were stained with a plethora of unidentified fluids and secretions. There were even a few random bullet holes whose origins no one supposedly knew.

It was almost midnight.

"Oh, God, not again!" Bicycle Bob whimpered when Detective Page entered the room. The officer's shirt shimmered in the flourescent glow; and whereas most interrogators would be loosening their ties at that moment, Page tightened his neatly and snugly against his neck.

"Good evening, Mr. Pesto." Jimmy greeted the mobster with his purr of a voice, and a smile that was halfway between kindness and evil.

Pesto flinched as Page scraped his chair away from the table and sat himself gracefully upon it. He pulled his pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and placed it on the table carefully, almost halfway between himself and the alleged criminal.

Pesto put his head on the table.

"Now, Mr. Pesto," Page began, talking as if he were addressing his young son, "you know we can't have a proper conversation if you don't look me in the eye."

"Aw, shit!" Pesto's voice was muffled by the table. After a moment, he lifted his face to meet his tablemate's.

Earlier in the day, Pesto's dyed jet-black hair was neatly gelled and combed back on his head. Since then, the combination of heat and sweat had caused his heavily greased hair to flop down on both sides, giving his head the shape of a mushroom. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was almost as grey as his interrogator's shirt. His hands were shaking, so he gripped the table's edge to try to keep his extreme nervousness from showing.

The two sat in silence for a long while. Page's face frozen in his kind but evil smile. Pesto was attempting a dignified Mafioso defiance, but failing miserably. He was the first to blink.

"Look, man, I told you, I didn't zatz this Banana kid. I don't know a friggin' thing about it! You can't hold me here forever, man! I got my rights!" Pesto spoke with a classic Little Italy accent, forming his ds and ts behind his top incisors.

"Yes, you do have your rights," Jimmy said agreeably, reaching for a cigarette. He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it with his yellow bic lighter. He took a loud, voluptuous drag, and exhaled the smoke directly into Pesto's face. "Nothing like a Marlboro to calm rattled nerves, eh?" Page asked, settling back in his chair to enjoy his smoke.

Pesto, who had not had a cigarette since he had been nabbed by the Englishmen at lunchtime, almost salivated at the sight and sound. He wished for a moment that he had taken time to enjoy his after-dinner Camel Light.

After he had smoked about half of the cigarette in silence, Page arose from his chair and sashayed over to the two-way mirror. His back to Pesto, Page paused at the mirror to make a few silly faces at whoever might be on the other side, and whirled around just in time to catch Pesto trying to sneak a cigarette out of the pack.

"Ah, ah, a-ah!" Page returned to the table while Pesto retracted his trembling hand. "Mine, mine, mine!" Page gleefully mocked the mobster while pocketing the cigarettes.

"Look. I can't last all night, but you can't neether," Pesto said contemptuously.

"Page nodded his head. "Yep. I can."

"How?" You gotta sleep just like anybody else, right?" A worried, uncertain look crossed Pesto's once proud mobster countenance.

"Insomnia," Page answered simply, smiling triumphantly like a child who had just won a game of checkers.

"Jesus Christ, man!" Pesto was at the bottom rung. "Can't you just let me have a smoke? I'm dyin' hee-ah!"

Page cocked his head to one side and puckered his lips as if considering the plea. He answered. "You do a little song and dance for me, and you can smoke yourself to death right now."

Pesto raged. "I don't know anything about this shit, okay? How many times and ways do I hafta tell ya? Now lemme go, or lemme see my lawyer, or I'll make sure your Limey ass is fried! Yer depriving me of my civil rights, pal."

Page ignored the threat. "You are not telling the truth," he said coldly, then added, "I'll help you out. You didn't kill Mr. DeLong, right? But you know about th Arachnid loan, yes?" Page's fierce eyes burned into Pesto. Pesto's mouth went slack, eyes bugged out of his waxlike skull.

"Don't be afraid," Page's tone changed to reassurance. "I know what you know. It just has to come out of your mouth. If you tell me the truth, you're a free man. With cigarettes."

Bicycle Bob broke.

"They paid up. It was a clean account. That album they put out after the tour, man . . . they made megabucks! They paid us . . . plus interest. Sure, I roughed up the drummer a few times, but they paid in full, eventually. It wasn't my hit, man!" He paused to take a breath. "There," he sighed, "you've got it."

Detective Page was satisfied. He nodded his head, reached into his shirt pocket, and pitched the half-pack of Marlboros onto the table in front of Bicycle Bob.

Bob dove at the cigarettes like a starving soldier on air dropped k -rations. He pausedonly when he realized that something was missing. "Um . . ." He uttered the noise meekly.

Detective Page, the professional smoker, realized his interrogee's dilemma, and bent to stand his yellow bic on the table.

"Be my guest," Page said, and exited the interrogation room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sad I seem not able to contact the author...Is there anyone who knows her and can tell her that?thx so much😭


	4. Chapter Four

Detective Plant had been watching with captain Hughie on the other side of the mirror. They both left the observation room to meet Page. "Let 'im go," Page said to Hughie.

"What do you mean, 'let him go'?" Plant asked, bewildered. "What the hell happened in there?"

Page sighed. He now allowed himself to be visibly wearied by the lengthy interrogation. "You saw what happened in there. He didn't do it."

"Yeah! Right! Like he was telling the truth. You HANDED it to him!" Robert exhaled forcefully and threw up his hands.

"Believe me," Page insisted, "he is telling the truth. I know. Let him go." He turned to walk alone down the corridor back to the squad room.

"I say let him go," Captain Hughie said quietly to Plant. "Cayce ain't been wrong yet."

"So where does that leave us?" Robert called after Jimmy. "Back at square one?"

"No," Jimmy said, not turning around. His voice echoed down the hallway as he disappeared around the corner.

Robert stood alone, shooting alternate glances toward the interrogation room, where Hughie was already giving Bicycle Bob his official walking orders, and the empty corridor leading to the squad room. He sighed a little, and hurried off to catch up with Page.

He met up with Jimmy walking homeward on the dark, deserted street.

"Hey, partner," Robert said, matching Jimmy's stride. "How 'bout I give you a ride home?"

Indifferent, Jimmy shrugged his agreement. They reversed their direction toward the precinct parking lot. They both wearily climbed into Robert's Duster.

They rode in silence until Robert started to make a turn toward downtown.

"No," Jimmy said, "other way."

"What?" Robert asked, quickly correcting his turn and heading down one more block to take the proper one-way toward mid-town.

"I'm not living home these days." Jimmy's voice betrayed his sadness. Robert said nothing, allowing Jimmy the choice to go on or stop. Jimmy did not elaborate.

"Well, were then?" Robert asked.

"Central Park. West Seventy-second."

They rode some more without uttering a word until they reached an attractive brownstone, not far, Robert observed, from Mick Jagger's place.

Jimmy exited the car, and, since he did not say good night, Robert took it as an invitation to accompany his partner inside. They entered a neatly, but sparsely furnished rental duplex.

Jimmy removed his black blazer and laid it across an eighteenth century repro couch. He turned to Robert.

"Thanks for the ride, mate. I needed it." His eyes were extra puffy, almost closed.

"You want to talk about it?" Robert ventured.

Jimmy lowered himself onto the couch, and rubbed his hand over his face, as if trying to rearrange what was there. "Not much to tell, Robert. Patricia kicked me out. She liked me better as a rock and roll star. She says this cop and gun thing is a bad example for Li'l James."

"You see him, don't you?" Robert asked, concerned.

"Oh, yeah." Jimmy brightened a little. "She lets me see him. He's over here quite often when I'm not on a case." His tone darkened. "I guess she doesn't understand that a bloke needs a change once in a while." He closed his eyes.

"Look, we can get out of this anytime," Robert said, a tinge of regret in his voice. "We can say fuck it right now if we want."

"No," Jimmy said, shaking his head slowly.

"Really. If it's interfering . . ."

"That Banana kid," Jimmy said quietly, "he was me, only . . . better."

"What do you mean?" Robert took advantage to Jimmy's rare willingness to talk. He sat down on an empire-style armchair facing his friend.

Jimmy explained. "I. . . never had the guts to approach my idols the way he approached me. I remember one night, it was sixty-seven or eight, at the Whiskey. Hendrix was there. I just sat there at my table watching him sitting there at his table. I kept on thinking to myself, 'go ahead, go over there and talk to him, tell him how much you love his playing,' but I didn't. I really wanted to, though, but I was too shy, too afraid of rejection. Hendrix just kept on getting drunker and drunker, you know, until his guys had to carry him out." Page paused to swallow thickly. "That was my last chance. I never was in the same room with him again. Sometimes I think if I had just . . . "

Jimmy paused for a moment, and Robert's eyes began to sting with tears as he listened on to the guitar god's story.

"Then there I was, at this bloody shithole of a party as a favor to Cole, with all of these heavy metal thrashers who're no more than walking hairpieces. You know, everybody was either acting cool and ignoring me, figuring that I was Jimmy Page, and I've heard it all before; or laying all this bullshit stuff on me. I was wondering what I was doing there when this kid, this guitar crazed kid comes up to me and tells me how great he thinks I am, and he was really sincere, I could tell. Then he asks me to sign his guitar. You should have seen his face, Robert. He was . . . going off, you know? He could hardly contain himself. I walked away from that party feeling so good about myself, so justified in what I had done with my life. S'whats it's all about, Robert. You know. I really liked that Banana kid, no matter how obnoxious he was. He put my life into perspective. I wanna find the bastard who killed him. I wanna NAIL him. You know?" Jimmy closed his eyes again in exhaustion.

Robert nodded. "Yes, I know," he said quietly. He then rose out of his chair, walked over to his friend, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Page's eyes opened a crack in response to the touch. "We'll talk about the case Thursday. Take a day off tomorrow. Okay?"

Too weary to verbalize his response, Detective Page nodded and closed his eyes once more. Plant left his partner alone in his sterile rental, closing the door quietly behind him. He sighed sadly as he slid behind the wheel of his car, thinking about his own empty flat awaiting his return.  
On Thursday morning, Detective Page arrived bright and early to the precinct house, shaven, and neatly dressed in a black suit and tie with a white and black pin-striped shirt. Plant, today dressed in jeans and a black oxford shirt, dutifully placed a cup of tea in front of Page along with the growing DeLong case file. Page in an unnaturally cheerful mood, donned an attractive pair of silver-rimmed eyeglasses, and opened the file to see what new information his partner had gathered during his day off. But the mood was promptly broken by Detective Blett, who had been waiting for twenty-four hours to give Page a ribbing about the Bicycle Bob affair.

"Say, Cayce! I hear you couldn't make 'im sing, so you had to let 'im fly!" Blett called from his desk.

Page gave him a dark glance over his spectacles, but said nothing. The annoyance continued.

"Yep, here he is, the greatest interrogator in the history of the precinct. Has Bicycle Bob right there in the station, and he lets 'im go. Makes a lot of sense."

"He got his confession, Blett, so fuck off, okay?" Robert retorted in Jimmy's defense.  
Blett ignored Robert, and continued to torment Page. "What did youse guys do in there, anyway? What'd you do, his hair?" Blett snorted obscenely at his own joke. A few chuckles sounded from around the squad room.

"I'll bet," Blett went on, "that the only person you can make sing is your little blonde girlfriend there." He pointed at Plant, who was glaring at him. More chuckles from the gathering of homocide detectives. Blett was encouraged. "But, only if you shove that guitar of yours right up his asshole!" The department exploded in laughter.

"Okay! That's it," Robert said, and, in yet another psychic moment, both he and Jimmy stood up and drew their guns on Blett.

Blett, not knowing the state of stability of the two English detectives, panicked. He jumped up from his seat so fast that he lost his balance and fell backwards against the wall. The other officers either quickly exited the room, or ducked for cover from the expected rain of bullets from the two drawn magnums.

Instead of the sound of gunfire, however, came laughter, this time from Page and Plant, who stood there holding their guns, watching Blett scramble under his desk.

"Pow. Pow." Jimmy said just before he reholstered the gun under his jacket, snickering.

Plant blew at the barrel of his, and spun it around his fingers in true cowboy fashion before putting it away.

"Hey! What the fuck is going on in here?" Captain Hughie had just stormed into the squad room after a tense meeting with the commissioner. "Cayce, Plant! Don't draw your goddam weapons in the building, you hear? In my office, now! And get your ass off the floor, Blett!"

"He's trying to cover the puddle," Robert remarked loudly as he and Page marched, chuckling, behind Hughie into the captain's office.

"Alright," Hughie fumed as he slammed his office door shut, "we need a progress report here. The commish isn't too happy that we let our number one suspect walk. Any other suggestions, you two?" He eyed them severely.

"Well, cap'n," Robert began, "as soon as Detective Page here read the folder, I was going to head into this very office and give you a detailed plan of the next phase of our investigation."

"Which is?"

Robert shuffled his feet for a moment, and Jimmy cleared his throat.

"We're going to investigate the band's record company," Jimmy declared before Robert had a chance to say anything. Robert looked at him with surprise.

"You have reason to suspect them in this murder?" Hughie asked skeptically.

"Well, yes." Jimmy continued. "They have a bit of a dodgy past. They owe a lot of money, and some bands are worth more when they, ahem, are no longer."

The two detectives shot each other a mutual, uncomfortable glance.

Jimmy went on. "The Arachnid catalog is selling like wildfire right now, and guess who's around to reap the profits?"

"The other band members, perhaps?" Robert offered.

Jimmy shook his head. "With all the personnel changes that happened throughout the band's history, Banana DeLong was the longest existing member. He did all the writing, and raked in the lion's share of the profits."

"Banana and Friends?" Robert quipped.

"Exactly," Jimmy replied. "The other members are on salary, a negligible amount from the record company's point of view. They are now talking about a tribute album, rereleasing the band's back catalog, putting out some Banana solo material he was blocking, and putting some dance mixes together. Megabucks. I think we should explore the possibility of a connection there."

Hughie was convinced. "Go for it, guys."

"Well, you've certainly done your homework. I thought I was giving you a sick day," Robert whispered to Jimmy as they reentered the now deathly silent squad room.

Jimmy smiled. "I've heard snippets here and there about Corporate Corpulence Records. Pretty bad scene. It's headed by some guy called Fred Biggs. Never met him, but I'm told he has a shadowy past, and has been in trouble with the law before. It's also in the wind that he's ripping off the record company to line his own pockets."

"Cookin' the books, is he?" Robert offered.

"Um. No. Not hungry at the moment. At any rate, I wouldn't put it past him to do something desperate to reverse his financial situation."

Robert thought about this for a moment, nodding his head and twirling his hair a little. Then, "So where do we begin, partner? Where do we start our investigation?"

"CBGB's." Jimmy answered without explanation. He sat down at his desk and propped his feet in their usual position. He then took a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket.

Robert sat down across from his partner at his desk, pushed a half -eaten jelly donut out of his way, and folded his hands in front of him prayerfully. He leaned forward. "I'm missing a piece here, Jim. How did we get from Corporate Corpulence to CBGB's?"

Jimmy lit his cigarette with laconic movements, and did not answer Robert's question until he had successfully taken two deep, satisfying drags. Robert, who had become used to these zen moments over the years, remained frozen in his expectant posture. When he had sufficiently raised the level of nicotine in his lung tissue, Detective Page dove into his story of what he had done the day before.

"You see," He began, "I needed a Corporate Corpulence insider who would talk. So, I went to the department of unemployment to see if anyone in the past couple of years or so, after the theatre fire, had joined the dole after leaving the company, you know, disgruntled employee." Another long drag.

"Did you find anyone?" Robert asked to fill in the pause. Jimmy nodded and made an affirmative sound as he let the exhaled smoke drift out of his nostrils. "I found out that six months ago, Mr. Biggs's assistant, a guy named Steve Reeves, left the record company for undetermined reasons. He was on the dole until about two months ago, when he died."

"He died?" Robert's eyes widened.

"Car crash."

"So he very well can't talk, can he?" Robert said flatly, his rapt attention waning as he detected another dead end.

"No. But his widow gave me some interesting leads."

"You didn't pay a visit to his widow?" Robert breathed, shocked. "A mere two months after the bloke dies, and you're knocking at her door asking her questions?"

"Now, Robert," Jimmy said in a rather bruised tone, "you know that I'm a sensitive guy. I didn't say anything to set her off. Besides, she was glad to see someone investigating her husband's death. She's convinced that foul play was involved, but the D.A. wouldn't go along." He smiled a little and added, "I also autographed her Complete Studio Recordings box."

Robert arched his eyebrows. "That was very nice of you, Jim. Now, I'm still sitting here wondering how we got to CBGB."

"Wait a minute," Jimmy said, picking up on Robert's mounting impatience. "I'm getting to that." He paused yet again to crush out his cigarette. "Mrs. Reeves said that her husband started becoming agitated about the way things were going on the job. His attitude worsened until he finally quit. He never told her what was going on or why, but she had a suspicion that something horrible had gone down. Her suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Reeves was killed in a freak car accident involving the sudden loss of brake fluid. Even stranger was the fact that, on the day before he was killed, Steve met secretly with a friend of his, a former member of Arachnid named Roddy Wall. She thinks he might know something important. I rang him, and he agreed to speak to us, and only us, tonight at the club. He manages the band that's playing there tonight."

"Why will he only talk to us?" Robert asked, curious.

Jimmy smiled smugly. "Because we're Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, of course. People will do anything for us. They trust us!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Www “Because we are Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, people will do anything for us.”That’s really true.


	5. Chapter Five

Jimmy and Robert descended into the filth of the Bowery at about midnight that evening. Were it not for the cheerful, if a little tattered, canope that stated "CBGB OMFUG," the nightclub might appear to be a walk-in trash heap. The general atmosphere outside the club was not helped at all by the scattering of bodies--mostly passed-out drunks, the sleeping homeless, and the hopelessly strung out--that lined the sidewalks like the aftermath of a spray-shooting. Inside, however, the club was jumping to the sounds of Angry Johnny and the Killbillies. A huge, sweaty crowd of leather-clad New York City night people bashed into each other in front of the stage, completely out of synch with the punkabilly rhythm being laid out by the band. Occasional feet appeared above the bouncing heads. Occasional items of clothing flew into the air.

When Robert and Jimmy entered the club, the bouncer respectfully showed them to a reserved table situated relatively safely at the back of the club, where the music was not so loud, and where only an occasional dazed and sweat-drenched dancer retreated to escape the madness of the floor.

"I'll get you two a few cold ones," the bouncer said reverently. "If you need anything else, just holler."

"Right, thanks," Robert said politely, and he and Jimmy sat back to scope out the band and await Roddy's appearance.

"I'm the nuclear man, I'm the Son of Sam, I'm Peter Pan, I'm Sirhan Sirhan!" The short-haired, monkey-faced singer spewed into the mic while mercilessly hammering his hand-painted guitar.

"The man is certainly angry," Robert observed to Jimmy over the mayhem of the song.

For the most part, people in the club did not recognize the former superstars hunched over their beers at the back. A few did doubletakes, but went on their way into the seething crowd. One man, however, who did make a positive identification, turned away from the pair, and walking into the fringes of the mass called out, "Yo! Hide your booooots!"

Shortly thereafter, a thin, tired looking young man with a long, blonde perm joined them. He introduced himself as Roddy Wall. The three shook hands. Above the din of Angry Johnny's screaming voice and guitar, he began to tell the rock and roll detectives Steve Reeves's story.

"Steve came to me the day before he died," Roddy began, taking a sizable swill of his Budweiser for strength. "He told me that he had found out some horrible things about Fred Biggs. Steve was a fan and a really good friend of the band's, and especially of Banana." The young man took another large gulp of beer. The detectives leaned in closely. "He told me that Biggs had set the fire that destroyed all our equipment; that Biggs had removed all the stuff, guitars, drums, amps, everything, and had the theatre torched. You see, he had an insurance policy on the band. We didn't know about it. Steve saw paperwork that showed that the record company got a huge insurance settlement after the fire. And . . ." The kid paused to throw a glance at his band, which had begun another disturbing number.

"Sister was home, but I did it anyway!" Angry Johnny shouted. He was using a beer bottle as a slide on his guitar.

"Yes?" Jimmy asked. It was his turn to be impatient. He was not at all interested in the angry singer and his Killbillies.

"And," Roddy turned back to the detectives, "Biggs loaned the equipment to another band, the Weebles, who desperately needed it. I'm sure he added the cost of the equipment onto their advance. Biggs was really big into the Weebles. Thought they'd make him a mint. He thought Arachnid were losing their edge, although he was wrong, 'cause we hit big with our last album."

"The Weebles," Robert mused. "Weren't they that two-video-hit wonder?"

"Yeah!" Roddy said, nodding wildly. "'The Argyle Sock Song,' and that other one, the one called 'Big Bopper.' After that they just fizzled." He continued his story. "Well, we lost all our equipment, but managed to get a, um, loan to replace it. Banana was devastated, though, because he thought his guitar, autographed by you," he pointed to Jimmy, who gave a small smile, "had been destroyed in the fire. He was so upset about it that he refused to write another song. He was in an incredibly deep funk."

Detective Page shook his head sadly, again remembering his encounter with Banana DeLong at Donnington.

"But!" Roddy went on, "you see, Steve had access to Mr. Biggs's vault at the record company building. One day, he went in there for kicks, and guess what he found? Banana's guitar! Signed by you!" Another gesture toward Jimmy, another small smile. "He was really torn between his loyalty and friendship to the band, and his duty to Mr. Biggs. In the end, Banana won, uh, er, I guess he eventually lost, but anyway, Steve let himself into the vault one night, lifted the guitar, and gave it back to Banana. Banana was so thrilled he almost fainted on the spot. But Steve never told him how he had gotten it back. Just said that someone 'borrowed' it before the fire, and it had resurfaced." Roddy had to stop for a moment to brush away a tear. He sighed and completed his tale.

"Banana was just about to start writing new tunes. He had a whole new perspective on life. And then, POW! He was killed. Steve quit the company before Biggs found the guitar missing. And then, POW! He was dead. And from what I hear, the guitar is missing again. Mr. Biggs has got to be behind all this."

Another sigh, and Roddy drained the bottle of Bud. Angry Johnny's caterwaul filled the empty moment: "Sister was home, but I killed the pup-py!"

Detective Plant made a sour face toward the stage, and turned back to Roddy. "Roddy," he asked, "why didn't you go to the police with this information?"

"What?" Roddy's jaw dropped. "Tell the police? Steve handed me a fuckin' death sentence with all that information! He's dead, Banana's dead, and you expect me to go spouting off to the pigs, uh, sorry, police? No fuckin' way, man! I'm telling you this because you are who you are. You're the Zep, man!"

"Were. Minus two," Robert corrected.

"Whatever!" Roddy said. "You do what you can with this information. I hope you nail Biggs. He ruined our band and my career; and I believe he killed my friends. But I ain't gettin' killed; and I ain't spending the rest of my life in a witness protection program!" Roddy abruptly got up and stalked away into the crowd.

Robert took a small sip from his bottle of beer while he watched Roddy Wall disappear into the slamming mass. Angry Johnny screamed: "I chopped it into pieces!"

"What say we go?" Jimmy suggested.

"What do you think about Mr. Johnny's playing?" Robert asked, a knowing smile played along his lips as he took one last slug from the bottle.

"He needs . . ." Jimmy made fretting motions with his left hand, and then dropped it onto his lap. ". . . work," he concluded, and drained his beer.

The detectives rose and exited the hellish club. Angry Johnny's voice trailed after them: "I don't wanna be forgiven! I just wanna be left a-LONE!" 

As they emerged from the dank netherworld of the Bowery and toward a safe place to catch a cab back to civilization, they discussed their strange meeting with Roddy Wall.

"Biggs is after that guitar for some reason," Jimmy said conclusively. "We've gotta find it. That will be our key to busting him."

"And I suppose you have an idea of where the guitar can be found?" Robert asked skeptically.

"Why, back in its rightful place in Biggs's vault, I would presume, wouldn't you?"

Robert groaned. "Yes. I was afraid you would presume it too."

"Well, then, off to Corporate Corpulence Records, tomorrow," Jimmy said uneasily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve put a reprint tag on this work!I hope there is someone who knows the author...Is there anyone who can give me her current email address? Thanks very muchx


	6. Chapter Six

Detectives Page and Plant arrived at the Corporate Corpulence New York headquarters near Rockefeller Plaza. They had earlier determined that the most likely location of the corporate vault was in the basement part of the building. After wracking their brains to figure out how they would gain access to the basement, Robert had decided that they should go undercover as exterminators.

They sat in the Duster wearing the white Orkin Man jumpsuits they had gotten from central procurement while Jimmy experienced a change of heart about his willingness to impersonate a pest control expert.

"Look, Jim," Robert said to his partner, "you've got to do it. This is undercover work. Just fun. Nobody'll say 'there's Page and Plant exterminatin' bugs,' I mean, that would be ridiculous, unthinkable! Wouldn't it? No, they'll say, 'hey those Orkin Men look a lot like Page and Plant,' and leave it at that. Plus, you have a nice moustache and everything." Robert scanned the street for effect, and added: "I don't see any paparazzi about, either."

"I won't do it. I won't go out in public wearing this suit. I feel like a cross between a courthouse janitor and a cheap Elvis impersonator."

"Well," Robert quipped, "you would certainly know about the former."

"And, YOU would certainly know about the latter," Jimmy shot back. There was a pause, and they both erupted into laughter.

After the laughter subsided, Robert said, "These really aren't much different from the getups you used to wear on stage. Think about it."

"I have," Jimmy said stubbornly, beginning to unzip the suit, revealing a black tee shirt and jeans underneath.

Robert took hold of his partner's hand to prevent him from zipping further. "We're doing this for Banana," He said quietly.

Jimmy paused and sighed. "Okay," he fumed, "but this is the last time I'm going to look like a jackass for this job." 

"We're here to exterminate your bugs," Robert Plant declared to the front desk secretary at Corporate Corpulence Records.

The pretty blonde ruminated her cinnamon Dentine rapidly while regarding the pair skeptically through her long, fake eyelashes.

"Ah, I don't think we're expecting you guys today, are we? I don't recall putting in an order . . ."

"Preliminary inspection," Robert broke in, tapping a clipboard he brought with him as an official looking prop, "ordered by Mr. Biggs's office. Seems you have an infestation around the vault area."

"Mr. Biggs, huh?" The secretary lifted the telephone receiver, and turned her attention to her desk while she talked.

Throughout the exchange, Jimmy had been continuously and nervously pressing his fake moustache. Robert nudged him a little while the secretary's attention was diverted, and motioned for him to stop. Jimmy rolled his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back.

The secretary completed her phone call, and said, "Wait here. A security guard will take you upstairs to the vault area."

"Upstairs. Figures." Jimmy whispered to Robert from behind the fuzz on his upper lip. Robert shrugged.

Presently, a young man in a Pinkerton security uniform materialized, and escorted the two onto the elevator to the tenth floor. They exited the elevator, and the security guard led them down a long, empty corridor.

"Say, Robert," Jimmy whispered to his partner as they lagged behind the Pinkerton, "what do we do when we get there? What do bug killin' guys do, anyway?"

Robert shrugged. "Damned if I know. We'll have to improvise, I guess. We're good at that."

"Right." Jimmy said. "Well, at least it seems that we're the only people on this level."

The trio turned a corner at the end of the corridor, and there they saw the heavy, battleship grey door of a very large vault. The Pinkerton waved them ahead, and said, "Well, here you are. You can look for your bugs now."

Robert and Jimmy were stymied as they realized that the "vault area" consisted of a bare hallway with no nooks or crannies to make their inspection look painstaking. Robert halfheartedly wandered around the marble-veneer corridor, viewing the floor and pretending to make notes on his clipboard. Jimmy stood watching and fingering his moustache, which had begun to itch fiercely.

The Pinkerton guard watched them curiously. "What kind of bugs are you looking for?" he asked, "cockroaches, I bet, huh?"

"Yeah," Robert replied, uncertainly, poking his pen at the baseboard. "Spiders and stuff, too. It's a very severe situation, I hear."

Robert continued to look and poke; and Jimmy continued to fidget with his lip. The guard hovered, keeping an eye on the odd pair.

"Er, um, Mr. Guard." Robert said finally, tiring of the charade, and beginning to feel a bit humiliated in his role as pest exterminator.

"Yes? Is there a problem?" The young man asked, approaching them.

Jimmy shot Robert a quizzical look.

"Yes," Robert replied, motioning for the Pinkerton to come closer. "I believe we need to get into that vault."

"I'm sorry sir, but no one is allowed in the vault except Mr. Biggs and his assistant."

"You see," Robert continued desperately, "judging from the, uh, evidence I found, the bugs are coming from inside this vault."

"Sorry." The Pinkerton insisted, this time fingering the riot club hanging from his belt. "I'm not even allowed in there. You can get permission from Mr. Biggs if you need to. Now, I think we ought to return to the front, okay? It looks like you've done your job." He turned his body slightly as if to leave, gesturing for Page and Plant to go ahead of him. Jimmy, now outright scratching his upper lip, looked pleadingly at Robert, asking him silently what they should do now.

"Wait!" Robert said, loudly enough for his voice to echo eerily down the corridor. "We really need to get into that vault. Now."

"What's the big deal? You can talk to Mr. Biggs about it, if it's so important. What's with you guys, anyway? Why should I let you into the vault? The Pinkerton's eyes darted from Page to Plant and back again, nervously.

"Well, because we're Robert Plant and Jimmy Page! Remember us? From Led Zeppelin?" Robert shot a glance at Jimmy, whose eyes were brightening.

The Pinkerton looked more disconcerted than ever.

"Remember?" Robert slid over to where Jimmy was standing, and began to sing, a little shakily at first: "Hey, hey mama said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove!"

Jimmy, taking the cue, brandished an air guitar, and pointed it at the Pinkerton in classic Page fashion. He bugged his eyes, pouted his lips, and played his riff furously while Robert provided a powerful and convincing, "Bah nah nah nah nah-nah, Bah nah nah nah . . ."

The now incredulous and wide-eyed Pinkerton started to back away from the rock and rollers during their serenade, groping for his walkie talkie. Robert, realizing that the display frightened rather than impressed the young lad, cut his aria short, and approached the retreating guard.

"Hey . . ." Robert began, at which point the Pinkerton turned and started to run down the corridor. Robert ran after him.

Carried like the wind by his long legs, Robert caught up with the guard and grabbed him by the collar.

"Look, dude!" The struggling youth protested against Robert's grip, while Robert relieved him of this riot stick and radio, "I'm not into that shit! Like I have a girlfriend and . . . woah! HEY!"

Robert tried to stop the guard's shrill cries with reassuring words, but he shouted all the more and began to swing his fists at the singing Orkin Man. Robert was still holding onto the collar for dear life, while blocking punches with his other hand.

Jimmy approached the struggling pair, and dancing around the blows that were now being directed at him, managed to reach out and squeeze the base of the guard's neck. The Pinkerton immediately collapsed, and the tenth floor of Corporate Corpulence Records was silent once again.

"Shit, Jimmy!" What'd you do?" Robert asked, breathless, as he bent to see if the young man was still alive. He was.

Jimmy arched his eyebrows and shrugged. "Don't know. I saw some Martian on the telly do it. That Mr. Spot guy. Thought I'd give it a try."

"It certainly worked," Robert remarked. "Can you believe he never heard 'Black Dog' before? Must be a country and western listener or something."

They both shook their heads sadly, and left the Pinkerton in repose while they hurried back to the vault door. They stood in front of it in silence for a moment.

"Alright, Jim. How do you propose we get into this thing?" Robert directed his question more to the vault than to Jimmy.

"Well, come on!" Robert said, turning to his friend, "you're the psychic guy. You should be able to crack this safe."

Jimmy moved closer to the vault to inspect the numbered dial and fly wheel. He then turned back to Robert, a look of frustration on his face. "I can't do shit with this thing, Robert. Sorry."

They both sighed, knowing that the guitar they were seeking was most likely right behind that door.

"If only a certain Zeppelin staff member from the seventy-three tour were here," Robert said.

"Yeah," Jimmy replied with a bitter laugh. "We could certainly make use of his skills right now."

"And then we could kill 'im," Robert said, patting the pistol under his exterminator suit.

Jimmy approached the vault door once again, and, half out of a lark, yanked on the fly wheel. To the absolute surprise of both, the door made a clicking sound and opened a crack.

"Jesus!" Robert gasped.

Jimmy pulled some more, opening it enough to let a person in. He shook his head. "Some idiot forgot to close this all the way."

"All that bullshit for nothing!" Robert sighed.

They both slipped into the vault and stood blinking. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim, incandescent lighting, they realized that they were in a rather large room; and as the contents of the room became visible, they both gasped.

Lining both sides of the room were glassed-in display cases. The cases were filled with all manner of music memorabilia: guitars, concert posters, tour jackets, stage clothing, gold and platinum records, framed letters and plaques. It was a veritable museum, and to Robert's and Jimmy's utter surprise, they saw that the vast majority of the items were from Led Zeppelin.

"Lordy," Jimmy whispered, "you think Fred Biggs is a fan of ours?"

"I would say. I wonder where he got all this stuff?"

"Look!" Jimmy cried. He scurried over to a guitar display case and pointed to an orange Les Paul Custom. "Here it is!" He said triumphantly. Robert joined him in front of the case. "Banana's Les Paul. See? My signature!"

Robert and Jimmy both stood reverently before the elusive guitar. A moment of silence ensued in tribute to the dead thrash rocker.

A short moment later, Robert began to view the rest of the merchandise on display, realizing that much of it consisted of items that could only have been procured from a Zeppelin insider. He noticed other memorabilia from acts such as the Everly Brothers and the Yardbirds. The collection impressed him greatly.

Jimmy, whose quiet rememberance had also ended, discovered what was unmistakably a climate-controlled audio tape storage cabinet in the corner of the room. He tried the cabinet, which opened effortlessly. "Today's me lucky day," he mused to himself while examining the dozen or so reel tapes hanging inside. And then, most unexpectedly, he broke into a hysterical rage.

"Holy shit! My tapes! My bloody music!" He cried.

Robert, who had been eyeing what he had identified as some gold-rimmed bar glasses from Caesar's Chariot, hurried over to his distressed partner, whose cries had become more shrill.

"I don't believe it! My tapes!" Jimmy touched the tapes as if they were something sacred, and retracted his hand, placing it over his heart. He stepped back and began to hyperventilate a little.

"What tapes, Jim?" Robert asked, gripping Jimmy's shoulder to try to calm him.

"The tapes that were nicked from my house! This is unbelievable!" Jimmy was now blinking back tears of rage.

"Wow." Robert said quietly. "It looks like Fred Biggs has more than one skeleton in his closet."

"I'm gonna get this guy!" Jimmy fumed while he unzipped and began to step out of his Orkin Man jumpsuit. "I'm gonna see him . . . uh, FRIED for this!"

"Jimmy," Robert cautioned, "we're here for the guitar, remember? We can't spend too much time here."

"I'm not leaving without my tapes," Jimmy said. He quickly tied knots in the bottom of jumpsuit legs, and began filling them with the reel tapes from the cabinet.

While Jimmy was busily nicking back his tapes, Robert turned his attention to the Gibson in the display case.

"You think it's wired?" Robert called over to Jimmy, who had almost completed relieving the tape cabinet of its contents.

Jimmy grumbled something unintelligible.

Robert took that as a cue. He pulled his gun out, stepped away from the case, and threw the weapon at the thick glass frontage with as much force as he could muster. The gun hit the glass panel, and the panel shattered with a frighteningly loud crash. Robert positioned his hands near his ears in expectation of an alarm, but to his relief, none sounded.

"Makes sense," he reasoned to himself, "we're in a vault, anyway."

"Jeez, Robert! What the hell are you doing?" Jimmy hurried over to the shattered display case, tapes rattling in his makeshift bag. He crunched across the glass and carefully lifted the Les Paul from its perch, examining it carefully for damage.

"How are we going to get this stuff out of here?" Robert asked, retrieving his pistol from the debris. He started looking around the vault room nervously. "We've gotta get out of here, you know, Jim."

"Yeah. I know. Here. Just take the guitar." Jimmy shoved the guitar toward his partner. Robert took it.

"What am I gonna do with it?" He asked helplessly.

"I don't know. What am I gonna do with these?" He held up the Orkin Man suit bulging with reel tapes. "Let's just get the hell out of here before somebody decides to check up on us!"

They took one last look around the mysterious Zeppelin archives, and raced down the hallway, leaping over the still unconscious Pinkerton guard, to the elevator. As the elevator made its way sluggishly down the shaft to the lobby level, Jimmy gave Robert some quick getaway suggestions.

"Just hold the guitar behind you and walk with your back toward the wall at all times. I'll carry the suit like this." Jimmy attempted to drape the lumpy garment casually over his arm. "Maybe they'll think I soiled it, or something."

The elevator door slid open, and the pair stepped out into the lobby. The secretary turned toward them, and asked, "Well, what'd you find?"

The two rattled detectives scuffled toward the front door. Robert, who was doing a miserable job of concealing the guitar behind his thin frame, said, nervously, while quickening his scuffle:

"You've got lotsa bugs."

"Yeah," Jimmy added, "Big bugs . . . shit." To his dismay, just as he said the word "bugs," one side of his moustache came unglued and flopped over his mouth.

The secretary, who at this point realized that the Orkin Men were really thieves, gasped and grabbed the phone. "Security to the lobby! Now!" She cried into the receiver, as Robert and Jimmy both broke into a run.

They plunged out of the Corporate Corpulence building, and sprinted across the street, contraband in hand, to the double-parked Duster. Guitar and tapes were tossed into the back seat, and they squealed off to Jimmy's house.


	7. Chapter Seven

Back at Jimmy's duplex, Robert sat cross legged on the floor, holding the late Banana DeLong's prized Les Paul. Jimmy filed lovingly through his tapes and then deposited them into an aluminum briefcase, which he locked with a brisk movement of his wrists. He brought the briefcase upstairs and returned to the living room empty handed.

"That scumball is going to pay," Jimmy said, grimly.

Robert regarded Jimmy proudly. "I've never seen you display such raw rancor before, mate. I think the mean streets of New York are agreeing with you."

"Oh, you wait," Jimmy said threateningly, "this guy is gonna spend a long, long time in the nick if I have a say about it." He turned his attention to the guitar on Robert's lap. Robert had jettisoned his Orkin Man suit, and was dressed comfortably in his favorite faded blue jeans and white button-down. Both had removed their body holsters.

Jimmy picked up the guitar and inspected his signature. "It held up well over the years," he remarked. He then squinted a little at the white pickguard. He sat on the floor next to Robert and scratched lightly at the edge of the enamel plate.

Robert leaned toward his partner to see what he was doing. "What did you find there?"

Jimmy mumbled, "I don't know. I thought it was a scratch from the glass, but it looks like there's a piece of paper or something stuck under the pickguard.

Jimmy stood up and disappeared into a back room returning with a few small tools. He sat on the couch, guitar across his lap, and loosened the triangular plate. A folded piece of paper wafted to the floor. Robert reached for the paper, unfolded it, and examined it quizzically while Jimmy carefully tightened the small screws on the pickguard.

"What is it?" Jimmy asked Robert.

"A recipe."

"A what?" Jimmy leaned over Robert's shoulder to look at the contents of the note.

"A recipe of some sort. Kinda hard to read, but whatever it is requires corn starch, water, and some kind of chemical puffing process."

Jimmy took the paper from Robert's hand, and attempted to interpret the sloppy handwriting. "Must be some kind of code." He concluded, folding the note and slipping it into the pocket of his black jeans.

"We should probably bring it to the station. Maybe one of those guys can figure it out." Robert suggested.

"Yeah. Maybe they have a secret code division, or some . . ." Jimmy stopped abruptly and craned his neck.

"What?" Robert asked.

"Shhhhh. I hear something," Jimmy whispered, then, "someone is trying to break in from the back. I think Biggs's people have found us."

Just then, the smash and tinkle of a breaking window sounded from somewhere else in the apartment.

Robert rose quickly to his feet, and Jimmy instinctively snatched up the guitar. "Out the front," Robert whispered, and they both hurried quietly to the front door.

Jimmy flung the door open, but their retreat was halted by a man in a suit awaiting their appearance on the top step. As soon as he saw them, the man started to reach manacingly inside his jacket.

"Jim, the guitar!" Robert yelled, remembering his partner's proficiency in battery with a musical instrument.

Jimmy groaned ruefully, but his survival instincts took precedence as he swung the prized Les Paul, pummeling the armed intruder squarely across the legs with the heavy, solid wood body. The thug had not expected such a quick reaction from the rock and rollers, and was completely unprepared for the blow. He cried out in pain and surprise, and toppled down the stairs, landing with a thunk on the pavement below.

Jimmy and Robert ran to the Duster, the former apologizing profusely to the guitar, which to his relief, had held together. For the second time that day, the rock and roll detectives jumped into their car in the fury of a quick getaway.

Jimmy deposited the guitar in the back seat, and was preparing himself for the velocity of Robert's vehicular takeoff, when he realized that he was seated in a most alien position: in front of the steering wheel. A look of horror crossed his face.

At about the same time, Robert hurriedly tried to shove the key in the ignition, only to hit the bare dashboard. The muffled sound of many feet running toward the car invaded their stunned silence. Robert, knowing that there was no time for them to switch their seating arrangement, threw the keys onto Jimmy's lap. "Drive, Jimmy!"

Jimmy fumbled incompetently with the keys until Robert grabbed them out of his hands and shakily placed the correct key in the ignition.

"Goddamit, Pagey! Get us the hell out of here! Do what you can!" Robert yelled, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"I . . . Oh, shit." Jimmy whimpered, just before the snapping of multiple guns cocking sounded outside the car windows. Jimmy and Robert looked around to see many suits and gun barrels surrounding the car. Jimmy's head hit the steering wheel and he groaned.

Robert let his head fall backwards against the seat and he sighed. "I guess we forgot in the heat of the moment how to get into an American-made car, huh, mate?"

"I guess so," Jimmy replied into the dashboard. "A most inopportune moment at that."

Both doors opened. "Out of the car, girls," one of the suits said, "we're gonna pay a little visit to Mr. Biggs." 

Robert Plant and Jimmy Page sat in the back of a long, black limousine. Two rather young, suited thugs sat across from them keeping them in check with drawn forty-fives. One of the thugs appeared to be bored and angry, but the other kept staring in awe from one detective to the other.

"Say," Robert said to Jimmy in a jolly tone, "this feels familiar."

"Yes, in a way," Jimmy replied, morosely, "except we never had guns pointed at us."

"Well, sometimes, some of those groupies . . ." Robert quipped, but he stopped as the grouchy thug shook his gun at them.

"Clam up," he ordered.

They rode in silence for a while, Robert looking out the window, breaking out into a quiet hum from time to time. Jimmy stared darkly, alternating his gaze from the plush carpeted limo floor to the grouchy thug across from him. The younger, awe-stricken thug broke the chilly silence.

"I just gotta ask ya, Jimmy," he said, somewhat apologetically, smiling uncomfortably as the former guitar god slowly shifted his stare from the floor to look directly into his eyes, "what does your symbol mean?"

Jimmy's stare remained unchanged for a long and tense moment. The awe-stricken thug shifted uneasily, and averted his eyes. Then the dark detective shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes dramatically. "This is unbelievable," he croaked, "I changed my career, I'm being kidnapped and held at gunpoint by mobsters, and I STILL can't get away from these idiotic questions! Can't you just let it go?"

The thugs' sinister frowns indicated that they were displeased with Jimmy's outburst. Robert decided that it might be politic to answer properly on behalf of his partner.

"Pardon my seatmate, here," he said, motioning toward Jimmy with distended thumb. "He's a bit under the weather. I'm sorry laddy, but Mr. Page here no longer has a symbol."

Jimmy turned toward Robert, a look of rapt interest crossing his face.

"You see," Robert continued with seriousness, "Prince stole Jimmy's symbol, and twisted it up." He made a crumpling motion with his hands. "Now he's usin' it, and Jimmy doesn't have one anymore. That's the truth."

Jimmy turned from Robert back to the awe-stricken thug and nodded his head in sincere agreement.

"The awe-stricken thug's eyes widened. "Wow, cool!" He exclaimed. Then, realizing that he had slipped grievously out of character, quickly returned to his mafioso stone face, and tightened his grip on the pistol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I haven’t updated for a few days!!  
> I was busy then but these two days finally I have time!


	8. Chapter Eight

After what seemed like forever, the limo pulled into the driveway of Mr. Biggs's house. It was a huge, Tudor-style mansion in a secluded part of the Long Island shore. The limo came to a smooth stop, and two suits emerged from the front of the vehicle to cover the doors with their automatic weapons as the captives stepped out, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. The pair was escorted at gunpoint into the house.

They were led through a spacious kitchen and down a hall into a stucco and beam, lodge-like living room, outfitted with leather couches and mahogany tables. An impressive fire crackled in the massive fireplace, and the walls were covered with bric-a-bracs that one would find in most lodge-like rooms of the well-to-do. They were ordered by the grouchy thug to wait there until Mr. Biggs was ready to see them, and he and his fellow thugs trained their guns on Plant and Page to wait as well.

"Well, we're finally going to meet Mr. Biggs," Robert said softly to Jimmy out of the side of his mouth. Gun barrels drew closer.

"I have a feeling we might just end up taxidermied in one of those display cases." Jimmy replied rather shakily. "I don't like this at all."

"Hey! Quit flapping the gums!" one of the suits ordered.

Jimmy and Robert stood in silence until, after several more tense minutes, a thug emerged from behind the large oaken double doors at one end of the living room.

"Mr. Biggs will see you now," he declared formally.

Followed by the whole brigade of gun-toting suits, Robert and Jimmy entered the room behind the doors. It was a plush den with a huge mahogany desk sitting squarely in the middle. More leather chairs dotted the den, and two were set in front of the desk. Heavy drapes were drawn over the large picture window, but several tasteful Tiffany floor lamps, positioned strategically around the room, provided a soothing, golden glow. At the moment, the huge leather chair behind the desk was facing the wall, and it was unclear whether or not someone was sitting in it. The pair was made to stand in front of the desk.

All of the thugs left the room except for one, who took up a position in the corner behind Page and Plant, gun drawn. After the oaken doors had closed and silence settled over the room, a voice emanated from the chair behind the desk.

"Welcome, Mr. Page and Mr. Plant." The voice was English and very familiar to the men it addressed.

The chair slowly turned around, and when the identity of its occupant was revealed, the detectives both cried out with surprise and disbelief, "Grant!"

Peter Grant smiled, and, with much difficulty, hoisted his immense frame from the chair. He walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, crossing one huge leg over the other. He regarded his former employers with a strange mix of amusement and menace.

"You're Biggs!" Robert exclaimed in amazement. Jimmy just silently swayed as if he were going to faint.

"How nice to see you boys again!" Grant said jovially. He clapped his beefy hands together, and rubbed them a little. It made a dry sound.

Jimmy and Robert noticed that Grant had not changed that much since they had last seen him. He was still quite huge, perhaps bigger than when they last saw him. A large gold earring dangled from one ear, and he wore a scraggly beard and moustache. He was almost completely bald, and what hair was left to ring his scalp was tied back in a thin pony tail. His thick, sausage-like fingers glittered with rings. He was dressed in a specially tailored silk suit and an open shirt which revealed his hairy barrel chest. His eyes still shone with a combination of cunning and mischief.

"You're the one!" Robert repeated. His demeanor calmed a little as he got used to the identity of his nemesis. "I can't believe how low you've sunk, Grant, killin' your own performers for money. Stealin' their equipment. How can you sleep at night?"

"Now, now," Grant said condescendingly, looking a little hurt, "I didn't kill anyone. I just say 'take care of this one,' or 'handle that one,' and it's done. That's what's so fun about being a mobster. You know, I always dreamed about being a mobster. Now I am one, and I find I'm quite suited to it."

Jimmy finally spoke up. "You broke into my house and stole my demo tapes," he said quietly.

"Hey, now, I didn't do that, either," Grant insisted, turning to Jimmy. "I bought those off of some scumbag in London a few years ago. Dropped a sizable wad for 'em, too."

"Why didn't you give them back to me, then?" Jimmy asked, his voice almost childlike.

"Why?" Grant looked at Jimmy in mock amazement. "Why didn't I give them back to you? Why SHOULD I have given them back to you? You fired me! You dismissed me like some housekeeper that didn't fold your sheets right! That's why I didn't give them back to you!"

"It was business, Grant. I had to move on," Jimmy protested.

"Oh, that wasn't the whole of it," Grant said, beginning to pace the den, his voice booming off of the walls. He faced Jimmy again, eyes blazing. "You called me a fat cunt! In a very public place! That was the topper, Pagey. Fat cunt. Thanks a lot, old friend. Nearly broke me heart. An' now it's in all the books. I was completely humiliated. I may be tough, but I have feelings, you know."

"You've called me worse!" Jimmy shot back with his typical whine. "You and Cole used to call me old girl in front of everybody!"

"Yeah, but I NEVER called you a cunt."

Jimmy threw up his hands in exasperation. "Just tell me who stole my tapes, will you?"

"The only thing I'll say, Pagey, is that you really should have kept better company in those days. But, then, I see you're trying to change the error of your ways now, hangin' out with the New York City police force." He gave a little chuckle. "Carrying badges, now, I see. But, you haven't fared much better because of it. That's what brings you here today. Snoopin' into my affairs. You're in big trouble now."

"All we did was take back some items you nicked, Grant," Robert broke in. "That guitar was Banana's pride and joy. I can't believe you had him killed for it."

"That guitar contained what is very shortly going to be my fortune. I THOUGHT I had picked the perfect hiding spot. I was wrong. Twice! And, it appears that that particular item is missing again. Which brings me to the reason I brought you two here in the first place; I could've done without the reunion, truth be told. I'd like me recipe back."

Page and Plant shot each other puzzled looks.

"Recipe?" Robert asked.

"Yeah!" Grant said, all of a sudden cheerful. He returned to the desk and picked up a crystal candy dish from its surface. The dish was filled with cylindrical puffs that looked somewhat like tan-colored Cheetos.

"Here!" He said, thrusting the candy dish in front of the detectives. "Try some!"

Robert and Jimmy each cautiously picked one of the strange snacks out of the dish. Grant scooped up a large handful and deposited the entire load into his mouth. He crunched happily, and the puffs squeaked a little against his teeth. He swallowed loudly.

"Go on!" He gestured to Robert and Jimmy to try theirs.

They looked at each other. Robert popped the puff in his mouth and started chewing, a look of mild disgust slowly crept over his face. But as he continued chewing, his expression lightened; and, after he swallowed, he said, "Not bad."

Jimmy put on end of his puff to his tongue, made a small noise that sounded like "ick," and flicked it like a cigarette butt past Grant onto the desk.

"Just what DO you eat, Jimmy?" Robert asked. Jimmy made a face. Robert turned back to Grant. "What the hell are they?" He gestured to the now half-empty candy dish.

"Edible packing material," Grant replied.

"Packing material?" Robert's eyes widened.

"Yeah!" Incredible? Huh? You know when you get packages in the mail and they're all filled with those styrofoam beans? Well, I have, er, inherited the patent to an edible, thus environmentally friendly, formula for packing beans. It's perfect. You can unpack your goodies, and eat the packing beans right out of the box while you inspect your merchandise! They're low calorie, no fat, and they don't go bad! I'm even toying with the idea of different flavors, like strawberry, blueberry, cinnamon . . ."

"Chocolate," Robert offered. Jimmy shot him an angered sidelong glance.

"Yeah!" Grant exclaimed. "Chocolate! Great idea. Smits!" The thug in the corner snapped to attention. "Remember chocolate, okay?"

"Right boss," Smits said.

"Anyway, I'm lining up some lobbyists right now to push a bill in Washington that would make non-edible packing materials illegal. They're bad for the environment, you know? It's eminently reasonable. I'll make a bloody fortune marketing these things!"

He looked fondly at the candy dish, and then back at Page and Plant with a new fierceness in his gaze.

"Which brings us to our meeting here," he continued, "I know you have my formula. It wasn't in the guitar when we checked just now. I would like it back, please."  
Jimmy looked at Robert with a rather panicked expression. "I forgot what I did with it," he said sincerely, "uh. . . who had it last?"

Robert shrugged. "Don't look at me."

"Shit, I . . ." Jimmy squinted into the middle distance as he tried to remember what he had done with the folded note.

"Oh, for god's sake, Pagey!" Grant fumed, "did you check your pockets?"

Jimmy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and extracted the paper from the left one.

"See that?" Grant said, snapping the paper out of Jimmy's hand. "You'd forget your bloody head if it wasn't screwed on. That's why you needed me, you bloody sod!"

Jimmy opened his mouth in protest, but Grant didn't let him speak.

"Admit it, Pagey. I was the best manager you ever had. You've been firing them left and right, 'avent you? I was irreplaceable, right? And that Curbishley, god! What a disaster. Look at you two! Policemen now!"

"Detectives," Robert corrected meekly.

"Ah, rubbish! Same thing!" Grant stormed. "I was the best manager. Admit it!"

Jimmy remained silent, staring daggers at Grant. Robert eyed him nervously and cleared his throat a little.

Jimmy finally responded. "All right, Grant. If you need to hear it that much. You WERE the best manager I ever had. But I'm saying it because it's true, not because there's a gun pointed at my back."

Robert breathed a sigh of relief. The huge mobster grinned.

"Smits!" Grant snapped. The thug in the corner was animated once again. "Make a note of that. Jimmy says I was the best manager."

"Yeah, boss. Done."

"Good. Now please get the rest of our friends gathered and escort Mr. Page and Mr. Plant outside."

Robert and Jimmy shuffled in place nervously.

"You mean, we can go?" Robert asked uncertainly.

Grant's grin widened into a cap-toothed smile that sent shivers down the detectives' spines.

"Do you think I am stupid enough to spill my guts to a couple of cops and then let them go?"  
Robert and Jimmy stood frozen at the words.

"Well, we never really thought that . . ." Robert began.

Grant broke in. "I told you your groovy little badges had gotten you both into trouble, and I meant it. No. You're going to go about as far as the sand dunes down the beach. There my friend Rocco and his staff will proceed to pummel your pretty little faces into pulp, and then fit you both with nice cement sneakers for your evening constitutional at the bottom of Long Island Sound."

At that moment, the four thugs from the limo ride came through the double doors into the den and stood at the ready. Robert and Jimmy both swallowed loudly. Whatever color had been in their faces quickly traveled south. Jimmy began to sway again.

"You see," Grant explained, his voice diabolical, "if you weren't cops, I might just, say, have Percy's face messed up, and have all of Pagey's fingers broken . . ."

A sickened groan sounded in Jimmy's throat.

". . . and then let you both back out to the public. That would be most satisfying, and much more enjoyable than what I'm having to do today. But, well, you made your bed, you'll have to lie in it, as they say. On second thought," Grant adopted a pensive tone. "This works out doubly well for me, because, after you two are dispatched, my little collection of Zeppelin items will absolutely SKYROCKET in value! Why, the signed Les Paul alone should rake in thousands!"

Overcome with rage at Grant's monologue, Jimmy cried, "You fucking bastard!" and lunged at Grant, fists flying. Robert was close behind.

Before Grant's thugs wrestled the flailing Jimmy and Robert away, Jimmy had managed only to bloody his former manager's nose. Jimmy and Robert stood gasping in the grip of thugs, and Grant had a handkerchief to his nose. The red stain on the white fabric was spreading quickly.

"You're both very lucky thad I gave sbecific oders not to kill you ib by house, else you'd be swiss cheese right dow," Grant said from behind the blood-soaked linen.

"What on earth did we ever do to you to deserve this, Grant?" Robert asked desperately, struggling against the grip of the thug.

Still holding the cloth to his nose, Grant replied. "I just TODE you what Pagey did. You, Robert, you were a middle class sdot, and a primba dodda, too. Dow you're both just a big paid id by arse, interfering wid by upward mobidity, for which I ab greatly overdue."

"It's not OUR fault that you squandered your earnings," Jimmy spat contemptuously.

"Thabks for that bit of wisdob, Led Waddet," Grant replied in a similar tone. Jimmy scowled, his eyes narrowed to mere slits.

The thugs began to maneuver the struggling Plant and Page out of the den, but Grant made a small hand gesture to halt them so that he could offer one more parting shot. Removing the handkerchief from his nose, he said, imperiously:

"And, I'm sure you'll both be happy to know that I have just signed Whitesnake to Corporate Corpulence. I suspect they will be one of the bands taking part in your tribute concert." He snickered devilishly.

Plant and Page snickered right along with him. They had a simultaneous mental vision of David Coverdale lying face-down in his flat, a neat bullet hole at the base of his skull.

"That's the most comforting news we've heard all day," Robert said, still grinning as he and his partner were taken from Peter Grant's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I’ve gotta finish it.


	9. Chapter Nine

Detectives Page and Plant stood, hands bound behind their backs, on a patch of Long Island sand. Rolling dunes surrounded them, and sparse tufts of sea grass waved in the salty breeze. The sun was low in the sky, which was tinted a most cheerful pink.

It would have been a perfect day on the beach if they were not facing a small group of suited thugs donning brass knuckles. The reason their battering had not already commenced was that one of the thugs was having trouble getting the video camera ready. Peter Grant had ordered the beatings videotaped for his viewing pleasure later on.

"Goddam this thing!" The camera thug fumed as he struggled with the tripod. "How the hell?" One leg of the tripod had collapsed, and as he secured it, another leg abruptly shortened several inches.

Meanwhile, impending torture and death had for some reason given the detectives a case of the sillies.

"Shooting a video, are we?" Page addressed the gathering of mobsters. "I'm getting really good at this. I'll have you know that this," he turned the right side of his face toward the camera, "is me bad side. I look much better when I'm doing this." He lowered his head and raised his eyes toward them, pouting his lips.

Robert giggled. "A little more hair in the face, ring in the nose, and you can be Slash!"

"Oh, I forgot me stovepipe hat!"

They stamped and guffawed. The mobsters looked on, stony faced. The camera thug continued to struggle, this time with the lighting.

"Let's do a commercial for Corporate Corpulence Records," Robert suggested, convulsing with laughter. "Corporate Corpulence," he announced to the camera, voice lowered an octave, face serious, "we kill our artists if they're not profitable alive!"

"Won't Coverdale shit when he finds out the terms of his contract!" Jimmy said, and they both doubled over, wheezing.

Their laughter began to subside when they realized that the camera thug had finally stopped struggling with the equipment, and the brass -knuckled mobsters were in a huddle, preparing for the job ahead. They were holding a coin toss to see who would throw the first punches. No one wanted to be the one to do the job on Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.

"Ah, you know, Jimmy," Robert said, catching his breath, "this really isn't very funny at all. I believe we're going to die this afternoon."

"Yeah," Jimmy replied, his voice transforming from levity to sadness. "Well, Robert, we've taken a lot of chances in our lives, and I'm surprised we've made it this far. At least, I'm surprised that I have."

"Jim, old friend," Robert wanted to hug his partner, but because their hands were tied, he could not, so he simply touched Jimmy's shoulder with his own, "I'm glad that we're going to go together. It's appropriate, you know? There's no one in the world I'd rather be with at a time like this than you."

"You mean that, Robert?" Jimmy asked emotionally, looking into Robert's eyes. Both of their eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

"I certainly do, mate," Robert replied quietly.

One of the mobsters broke the intimate moment. It was the grouchy thug from the limousine. "Okay enough of this slush. We lost the coin toss, so we're gonna hafta start the job." He was assigned to Jimmy; another suit positioned himself in front of Robert.

"Lemme just say, on behalf of all of us," Robert's thug said, "we all apologize for what we're gonna do here. We think you guys are the greatest, and have the highest respect for you and your music. We're doing this on orders from Mr. Biggs. It's strictly business."

The mobsters raised their fists. Their knuckle wear glinted in the waning sunlight. Just as Robert and Jimmy were flinching in expectation of the painful blows, a car appeared speeding over the dunes toward the gathering. The car, a sporty red Torino with a white stripe, cut sideways in the sand and skidded to a stop mere inches from the camera tripod, sending a wave of brown grit cascading into the air. The camera thug jumped out of the car's way, and was buried by a shower of sand.

Two men jumped out of the car, one blonde and one brunette, guns drawn. "Halt!" They cried in unison. "Hands in the air or you're history!" The curly-haired brunette added. The startled mobsters had no time to go for their guns. They obediently raised their hands over their heads, and awaited their fate. Robert and Jimmy slipped unsteadily through the sand, putting as much distance as they possibly could between themselves and their erstwhile captors. Two cruisers, sirens blaring, arrived. Uniformed New York troopers piled out of the cruisers to help frisk, bind, and collect Grant's thugs.

"We can thank our lucky stars," Robert said to Jimmy as they approached the red Torino.

"Or be thankful that we ARE lucky stars," Jimmy offered.

The blonde undercover was now leaning at the driver's side of the Torino, talking into the police radio mic. "Zebra three. Suspects in custody. Targets unharmed," he said cooly, watching the two rock and roll detectives as they came closer.

"Hey!" The brunette swaggered to meet Page and Plant halfway, holstering his pistol as he kicked

"Yeah, thank god!" Robert said with a smile. The brunette unbound his hands. Robert rubbed his wrists and reached out to shake the cop's hand. "You came just in time. They almost relieved us of our looks, and then our lives!"

"So," The dark-haired cop said as he clasped Robert's hand, and then Jimmy's, "you're the famous Detectives Page and Plant. Nice to meet you."

"And who might you be?" Robert asked politely.

"Dave Starsky. And that's my partner, Hutch." He motioned to the blonde, who had completed his call to the station and was making his way down a dune to join them. More handshakes all around.

"I don't recall seeing you around the precinct. You new?" Robert asked.

"We were specially imported for this job. From out of town." Starsky replied.

"So, how did you find us?" Robert asked. The four were now walking back up the dune to the Torino.

"We've had you under surveillance since you were apprehended at seventy-second." Starsky replied.

"What?" Jimmy stopped in his tracks, hands on his hips, face enraged. "You were trailing us all this time? You let it go this far? We came within inches of losing our faces back there!"

"Whoa, now!" Hutch said, reaching for the passenger side door of the Torino. "Everything was under control. We gotcha didn't we?"

"Barely!" Jimmy persisted. "Why didn't you just grab those guys when they broke into my house?"

Hutch held open the front seat while motioning for Jimmy and Robert to get in the back. Starsky slid behind the steering wheel. "Those guys're just little fishies. We had to nab the whale, and we couldn't do that until we had sufficient evidence to arrest him."

"So, what kind of evidence have you got now?" Robert asked, sliding across the back seat to make room for Jimmy.

"Bugged his office," Hutch replied. "We have his admissions and threats on tape. We're now holding Peter Grant, a.k.a. Fred Biggs on three counts of conspiracy to murder, and racketeering charges."

"We also have that Oscar winning performance of yours that was being filmed for Grant," Starsky added with a crooked smile. "What can we call it? Page and Plant's Beach Blanket Bingo?" Starsky and Hutch both laughed, and Starsky gunned the accelerator. The car fishtailed wildly in the sand before righting itself. They sped off back toward the Biggs house.

Jimmy leaned forward, his head between Starsky's and Hutch's. "Look. You gotta make sure that videotape does NOT go public." He said loudly over the din of the racing automobile.

As the Torino sped past the Biggs's residence, Robert and Jimmy both saw Peter Grant, handcuffed, being guided into the back of a cruiser. They both experienced a sad, sinking feeling at the sight of the cruiser pulling away, shuttling their former manager and friend to jail.

"Stop the car. Let us out." Jimmy ordered Starsky.

"You sure?" Starsky asked, looking quizzically into the rearview mirror.

"Yes." Jimmy said. Starsky stopped the car. Hutch hopped out and let Jimmy and Robert out of the back. The detectives slid out and began walking together toward the beach.

"Want us to wait?" Hutch called after them.

"No." Jimmy waved them on without turning. "We wanna walk a little."

"Suit yourselves," Starsky said under his breath, and he and his partner raced off with the obligatory cop-car squeal and tire rubber residue.

Jimmy and Robert walked along the shoreline, just out of reach of the foamy waves that heaved persistently over the sand. The sun was a fading golden glow over the horizon. Stars had begun to twinkle in the darkening eastern sky. Robert put his arm around his partner's shoulders as they walked and silently contemplated all that had transpired in the past few days.

"Looks like it's all over for Grant, doesn't it?" Robert said finally.

Jimmy nodded his head sadly.

"Is it all over for us?" Robert ventured.

Jimmy pursed his lips and this time shook his head. "No, Robert. Ever onward, remember?"

Robert smiled and pulled Jimmy closer. "Ever onward." He said quietly, and they both sauntered down the beach as the golden glow of the sunset faded into nighttime.


End file.
